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The house was on a septic system, so a bucket filled with water next to the tub allowed them to flush the toilet.
The forest was a tangle of black straggly trees that pressed in on him from all sides.
Cold was a far greater threat to survival than it appeared. It decreased the ability to think and subdued the will to do anything, even to survive. The cold was an insidious enemy.
He swept the weapon from left to right, steadily searching in a grid pattern—scan left to right. Bump down five degrees. Scan right to left. Bump down five degrees. Repeat.
The cold was already burrowing into his bones, sinking deep inside him. Thickening his thoughts, the pain blurred everything to a distinct white haze.
Normally, he could shoot a half-dollar head shot cluster at twenty-five yards.
Dawn tinged the early morning sky a weak, watery gray.
He thought of the old adage that had guided ice fisherman for ages: Thick and blue, tried and true. Thin and crispy, way too risky.
She knew what oppression looked like. Chains weren’t always visible.
